AN UNEXPECTED DEVELOPMENT
An expedition was to be organised in spring, and the stock removed, no
matter where. It would be the only chance for their lives. As it was,
the winter was fast coming upon them. Every blade of the ordinary
herbage had disappeared. The nights commenced to lengthen. Frosts of
unusual severity had set in. Even now it seemed as if their last hope
might be destroyed and their raft dashed on the rocks ere it was
floated.
But one morning Dick Evans came up to Wilfred, sadly contemplating the
attenuated cows which now represented the once crowded milking-yard. He
was riding his old mare, barebacked, with his folded coat for a saddle,
and spoke with unusual animation.
‘I believe we’re right for the winter after all, sir. I never thought to
see this, though old Tom told me he’d know’d it happen once afore.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I took a big walk this morning to see if I could find tracks of
this old varmint. I thought she might be dead, but I warn’t satisfied,
so I took a regular good cruise. I found some tracks by the lake, where
I hadn’t been for some time, and there sure enough I finds my lady, as
snug as a wallaby in a wheat patch. Look how she’s filled herself, sir.’
Wilfred replied that the old mare appeared to have found good quarters.
‘When I got to the lake, sir, I was reg’lar stunned. It was as dry as a
bone, but through the mud there was a crop of “fat hen” comin’ up all
over, miles and miles of it, as thick as a lucerne field on the Hunter.
The old mare was planted in a patch where it was pretty forrard. But
it’s growin’ so’s you can see it, and there’ll be feed enough in a week
or two for all our cattle and every hoof within twenty miles of the
lake.’
‘Wonderful news, Dick; and this “fat hen,” as you call it, is good and
wholesome food for stock?’
‘Can’t beat it, sir; first-chop fattening stuff; besides, there’s rushes
and weeds growin’ among it. You may pound it, we’ll have no more trouble
with the cattle for the winter, and they’ll be in good fettle to start
south in the spring.’
This was glorious news. It was duly related at the breakfast-table, and
after that meal Wilfred and Guy betook themselves to the lake. There
they beheld one of Nature’s wondrous transformations.
The great lake lay before them, dry to its farthermost shore. The
headlands stood out, frowning in gloomy protest against the conversion
of their shining sea into a tame green meadow. Such, in good sooth, had
it actually become. Through the moist but rapidly hardening mud of the
lake-surface millions of plants were pushing themselves with vigour and
luxuriance, caused by the richness of the ooze from which they sprang.
Far as the eye could see, a green carpet was spread over the lately
sombre-coloured expanse. The leaves of the most forward plants were
rounded and succulent, while nothing could be more grateful to the
long-famished cattle than the full and satisfying mouthfuls which were
in parts of the little bays already procurable.
Even now, guided by the mysterious instinct which sways the hosts of the
brute creation so unerringly, small lots had established themselves in
secluded spots, showing by their improved appearance how unusual had
been the supply of provender.
‘What a wonderful thing,’ said Guy; ‘who would ever have thought of the
old lake turning into a cabbage-garden like this? Dick says this stuff
makes very good greens if you boil it. Why, we can let Churbett and the
Benmohr people send their cattle over if it keeps growing—as Dick
says—till it’s as high as your head. But how in the world did this seed
get here? That’s what I want to know. The lake hasn’t been dry for ten
years, that’s certain, I believe. Well, now, did this seed—tons of
it—lie in the mud all that time; and if not, how was it to be sowed,
broadcast, after the water dried up?’
‘Who can tell?’ said Wilfred. ‘Nature holds her secrets close. I am
inclined to think this seed must have been in the earth, and is now
vivified by the half-dry mud. However it may be, it is a crop we shall
have good cause to remember.’
‘I hope it will pull us through the winter and that’s all,’ said Guy. ‘I
mustn’t be done out of my trip down south. I want to find a new country,
and make all our fortunes in a large gentlemanlike way, like Mr. St.
Maur told us of. You don’t suppose he goes milking cows and selling
cheese and bacon.’
‘You mustn’t despise homely profits, Guy,’ said the elder. ‘Some of the
largest proprietors began that way, and you know that “Laborare est
orare,” as the old monks said.’
‘Oh yes, I know that,’ said the boy; ‘but there’s all the difference
between Columbus discovering America, or Cortez when he climbed the tree
in Panama and saw two oceans, and being the mate of a collier. I must
have a try at this exploring before I’m much older. There’s such a lot
of country no one knows about yet.’
‘You will have your chance, old fellow, and your triumph, like others, I
hope. But remember that obedience goes before command, and that Captain
Cook was a boy in a collier before he became a finder of continents.’
Wilfred found it necessary to ride over to Benmohr to arrange definitely
about the time of departure. He had nearly reached the well-known gate
when a horseman rode forward from the opposite direction. He was well
mounted, and led a second horse, upon which was a pack-saddle. Both
animals were in better condition than was usual in this time of
tribulation.
Effingham was about to pass the stranger, whose bronzed features, half
concealed by a black beard, he did not recall, when he reined his horses
suddenly.
‘You don’t remember me, Mr. Effingham. I am on my way to the old place.
I’ve got something to tell you.’
It took more than another glance to enable him to recognise the speaker,
and then it was a half-instinctive guess that prompted him to connect
the bold black eyes and swarthy countenance with Hubert Warleigh.
‘The same,’ said the horseman. ‘I saw you did not know me; most likely
took me for a station overseer or a gentleman. I was a swagman when you
saw me last, so I’m getting on, you see.’
‘I beg you a thousand pardons,’ said Wilfred, shaking his hand
cordially. ‘I did not know you at first sight; the beard alters your
appearance, you must admit. I hope you are coming to stay with us. My
father will be delighted to see you. He often speaks of you.’
‘I thank him, and you too. If _my_ father had been like him, I should
have been a different man. But I had better tell you my business before
we go farther. They say you are going to shift the cattle; is that
true?’
‘We start almost at once. But we haven’t settled the route.’
‘That’s just as well. I’ve found a grand country-side away to the south,
and came to show you the way—that is, if you believe my story.’
‘Look here,’ cried Wilfred excitedly, ‘come with me to Benmohr to-night,
and we’ll talk it over with Argyll and Hamilton. We must hold a council
over it. It’s near sundown, and I intended to stay there.’
Hubert Warleigh drew back. ‘I don’t know either of them to speak to. The
fact is, I have lived so much more in the men’s huts than the masters’
until the last few months, that I don’t fancy going anywhere unless I’m
asked.’
‘Come as my friend,’ said Wilfred impetuously. ‘It is time you took your
proper position. Besides, you are the bearer of good tidings—of news
which may be the saving of us all.’
He allowed himself to be persuaded. So the two young men rode up to the
garden gate, at which portal they were met by Argyll. Ardmillan and Neil
Barrington were playing quoits on the brown lawn. Fred Churbett (of
course) was reading in the verandah.
‘Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Hubert Warleigh,’ said Wilfred. ‘He has
just come in from a journey, and I have prevailed on him to accompany
me.’
‘Most happy to see you, Mr. Warleigh,’ said Argyll, with cordial
gravity. (He knew all about ‘Gyp’ Warleigh, and had probably said
contemptuous things, but accepted Wilfred’s lead, and followed suit.)
‘The man will take your horses. Effingham, you know your way to the
barracks.’
Hubert Warleigh followed his newly-acquired comrade into the building,
where the appearance of matters indicated that some of the other
habitués had been recently adorning themselves. Mrs. Teviot, however,
promptly appeared on the scene with half-a-dozen towels, and supplies of
warm water.
‘Weel, Maister Effingham, this is a sair time and a sorrowfu’. To think
o’ a’ the gentlemen gangin’ clean awa’, and a’ the milch kye, puir
things, into thae waste places o’ the yearth, and maybe deein’ o’ drouth
or hunger, and naebody to hae a crack wi’ but thae fearsome saavages
‘It’s very hard upon all of us, Mrs. Teviot, but if it won’t rain, what
are we to do? We can’t stay at home and let the cattle die. You know the
Israelites used to take away their beasts in time of famine, and they
seem to have had them pretty often.’
‘How do you do, Mrs. Teviot?’ said Warleigh. ‘How’s Wullie this dry
weather? I suppose you forget me staying a night in the hut with old Tom
Glendinning, three or four years ago.’
‘Gude sake, laddie!’ said the old woman in a tone of deep surprise, ‘and
is that you, clothed and in your right mind, like the puir body in the
Book? And has some one casten oot your deevil? Oh, hinnie! but I’m a
prood woman the day to see your father’s son tak’ his place amang
gentlefolk ance mair. The Lord guide ye and strengthen ye in the richt
path! Man, ye lookit sae douce and wiselike, hoo was I to ken ye, the
rantin’ dare-deevil that ye were syne?’
‘I have been living among the blacks, Mrs. Teviot,’ said the prodigal,
with a transient glance of humour in his deep eye; ‘perhaps that may
have improved me. But I am going to try to be a gentleman again, if I
don’t find it too dull.’
‘Aweel! The denner is dishen’ up the noo; dinna wait to preen yersels
ower muckle,’ added the good old dame as she vanished.
In despite of her warning, her old acquaintance produced several
articles of raiment from the large valise, which had been unstrapped
from his led horse, and proceeded to change his dress. When they walked
into the house Wilfred thought he had rarely seen a handsomer man.
His clear, bronzed complexion, his classically cut features, his large
dark eyes, with, what was then more uncommon than is the case now, a
bushy, coal-black beard, made the effect of his countenance picturesque
and striking in no ordinary degree.
His tall and powerful frame, developed by toil and exercise into the
highest degree of muscular strength, was perfect in its symmetry as that
of a gladiator. His very walk showed the effect of years of woodcraft,
with the hunter’s lightness of footstep, and firm, elastic tread. As he
entered the dining-room there was a look of surprise, even admiration,
visible on every face.
‘Mr. Warleigh,’ said Argyll, ‘allow me to make my friends known to you.
Hamilton, my partner—Ardmillan—Forbes—Neil Barrington—Fred Churbett.
Now, you are all acquainted. Dinner and Mrs. Teviot won’t admit of
further formalities.’
In despite of his former preferences for humble companionship, and his
depreciation of his own manners and habitudes, Wilfred was pleased and
interested by the unaffected bearing of his protégé during the dinner
ceremony. He well knew all the men present by reputation, though they
had no previous acquaintance with him, except, perhaps, as a stock-rider
on a cattle-camp.
Without attempting to assume equality of language or mingle in
discussion, for which his lack of education unfitted him, he yet bore
himself in such self-possessed if unpretending fashion as impressed both
guests and entertainers.
When the dinner was cleared away, and pipes were lit, in accordance with
the custom of bachelor households (O’Desmond’s always honourably
excepted), Wilfred Effingham thought the time favourable for opening the
serious business of the evening.
‘I take it for granted,’ he said, ‘that we are all agreed to start for
“fresh fields and pastures new” in a few days. Equally certain that we
have not settled the route. Is that not so? Then let me take this
occasion of stating that Mr. Warleigh has arrived from the farthest out
station on the south, and that he is in possession of valuable
information as to new country.’
‘By Jove!’ said Argyll, ‘that is the very thing we were discussing when
you rode up, and are as far from a decision as ever. If Mr. Warleigh can
give us directions, we ought to be able to keep a course moderately
well—I mean with the aid of an azimuth compass.’
‘Argyll would undertake to find the road to Heaven with that compass of
his,’ said Ardmillan.
When the laugh had subsided, which arose from this allusion to a
well-known habit of Argyll’s, who always carried a compass with him—even
to church, it was asserted—and was wont to state that no one but an
idiot could possibly lose his way in Australia who had sense enough to
comprehend the points of that invaluable instrument—Hubert Warleigh said
quietly, ‘I’m afraid the road to my country is a good deal like the road
to h—ll, that is, in the way of being the most infernal bad line for
scrub, mountain, and deep rivers I ever tackled, and that’s saying a
good deal. But I promised Captain Effingham to do him a good turn when I
got the chance, and when I heard of this dry season I came prepared to
show the way, if he liked to send his stock over, and go myself. As you
all seem to be in the same box, equally hard up, I don’t mind acting as
guide. We’ll be all the better for going as a strong party, as the
blacks are treacherous beggars and the tribes strong.’
‘The road, you say, is as bad as bad can be,’ said Hamilton. ‘I suppose
the good country makes up for it when you get there?’
‘I’ve seen all the best part of New South Wales,’ said the explorer. ‘I
never saw anything that was a patch on it before. Open forest country,
rivers running from the Snowy Mountains to the sea, splendid lakes, and
a regular rainfall.’
‘The last is better than all,’ said Hamilton. ‘One feels tired of
working up to a decent thing, and then having it knocked down by a
change of season. I, for one, will take the plunge. I am ready to start
at once for this interesting country, where the rivers don’t dry up, the
grass grows at least once a year, and rain is not a triennial
phenomenon.’
‘The same here!—and—I, and I,’ came from the other proprietors.
‘I suppose there’s room enough for all of us; we needn’t tread on each
other’s toes when we reach the land of promise?’ said Ardmillan.
‘Enough for the whole district of Yass and something to spare,’ said
their guest. ‘I was only over a portion of it, but I could see no end of
open country from the hill-tops. It’s a place that will bear heavy
stocking—thickly grassed and no waste country to speak of. After you
leave the mountains, which are barren and rough enough, you drop down
all of a sudden upon thinly-timbered downs—marshy in places, but grass
up to your eyes everywhere.’
‘I like that notion of marshes,’ said Fred Churbett pensively. ‘I feel
as I should enjoy the melody of the cheerful frog again. His voice has
been so long silent in the land that I should hail him as a species of
nightingale, always supposing that he was girt by his proper
surroundings of the “sword-grass and the oat-grass and the bulrush by
the pool.”’
‘How was it you managed to drop across this delightful province,
Warleigh?’ said Wilfred. ‘I should like to hear, if you don’t mind
telling us, how you crossed the mountains towards the south. Old Tom and
Dick Evans said they were inaccessible; that there was no good country
between them and the coast.’
‘Old Tom knew better,’ said their guest quietly. ‘We had a long talk the
last time I was at Warbrok; he said then if any one could find a road
for cattle the other side of the Snowy River, after you pass
Wahgulmerang, he was dead certain there was any amount of fine country
beyond, between it and the coast.’
‘How did he get to know?’
‘It seems he was stock-keeping once on one of the farthest out runs, and
a mate of his, who was “wanted” for some cross work or other, came along
and asked him to put him away for a bit, till the police got tired of
hunting him. The old man gave him some rations, and told him of a track
through the gullies, which took him to the leading spur, by which, of
course, he could get on to the table land. Only an odd white man or so
had ever been there. After a week he got “tired of looking at forty
thousand blooming mountains” (as he told Tom afterwards), and being a
resolute chap, with gun and ammunition, he thought he would make in
towards the coast. Anyhow he was away all the winter. When he came back
he told Tom that he had dropped in with a small tribe of blacks, who had
taken to him. They spent the winter by the side of a great lake, fishing
and hunting. There was plenty of fine grass country in all directions
when you got over the main range.’
‘And why did he come away from Arcadia?’ asked Argyll.
‘From where?’ asked the unclassical narrator. ‘No; that wasn’t the name.
It was Omeo. A grand sheet of water on a kind of hill-plain, with ranges
all round, and one tremendous snow-peak you could see from anywhere.
Well, he got tired of the whole thing—didn’t know when he was well off,
like most men of his sort—so he made tracks back again. Old Tom didn’t
believe all the story. But he thought afterwards that there must be
something in it, and that it would be worth while some day to have a
throw in and find the lake at any rate.’
‘Then we are to suppose that you made the attempt and succeeded?’ said
Ardmillan. ‘I confess that I envy you. But how did you manage by
yourself?’
‘You remember the day I left your place?’ said Gyp Warleigh, nodding to
Wilfred. ‘I felt so savage and ashamed of myself that I determined to do
something, or get rubbed out in the attempt. So I made through Monaro,
crossed the Snowy River near Buckley’s crossing, and made straight for
the foot of the big range. I was well armed, and had as much rations as
I could carry. I knew the blacks were bad, but I had lived with more
than one tribe, and thought I could manage them. I set myself to track
the man old Tom spoke of. Of course, I’m a fair bushman,’ he added
gravely. ‘I’ve never done anything else much all my life, so there’s no
great credit in it.’
‘Had you no compass with you?’ inquired Argyll. ‘No? Then I differ from
you in thinking there was nothing extraordinary in the adventure. Not
one man in ten thousand would have risked it, or come out with his
life.’
‘What does a man want with a compass who can see the sun now and then?’
asked the Australian. ‘He can steer by the lie of the country, the
course of the water, if he has the bushman’s eye. I tracked up the old
man’s mate, and found his first camp on the table land. It was easy
after that. He couldn’t help but follow the leading range. It wasn’t
such rough country after the first day. Game was plenty, so I lived
well.’
‘How about the niggers?’ asked Churbett. ‘I should have felt too nervous
to sketch or make any use of my opportunities. Fancy going to sleep at
night and thinking you mightn’t want any breakfast!’
‘I had a better chance than most men. I’m half a blackfellow myself in
the way of knowing their language and most of their ways. I did one of
their old men a service, and he taught me a secret that saved my life
more than once. Still, I didn’t want to run across them if I could help
it.’
‘I should have thought you couldn’t avoid them,’ said Hamilton. ‘They
are great trackers, and have eyes like hawks.’
‘I know that, but I could see their smokes a long way. I lay by during
the day and travelled late and early. One day I climbed a tree on the
top of a range, when I saw a cluster of snowy mountains, and on the far
side of them the waters of a lake. I had found Omeo.’
‘You must have felt like Columbus or Cortez gazing upon the two oceans,’
said Ardmillan. ‘What a grand sensation.’
‘Columbus discovered America, didn’t he? The other chap I don’t remember
hearing about. Well, I partly discovered Omeo, I suppose, and a bitter
cold morning it was. I crawled down to the shore, and before I got there
could see miles and miles of splendid open country, stretching away to
the west. There were no more mountains; and as I pulled up next day, on
the bank of a big river, I found myself surrounded by a tribe of
blacks.’
‘They slew you, of course,’ said Fred Churbett. ‘Lights half turn, and
slow music from the orchestra. What a dramatic situation! If they didn’t
do that, Warleigh, what did they do?’
‘It was a close shave, I tell you,’ said the hero of the adventure. ‘But
they had just lost a fellow of about my age; so they adopted me, as luck
would have it. I could patter their lingo a bit, for they talked a sort
of Kamilaroi, in which I could make myself understood. Anyhow I lived
three or four months with them, and wandered nearer the coast. The
country kept getting better, and the grass was something to see after
this brickfield of a place. Towards spring my friends drew back to the
Monaro side again, and one fine day I gave them the slip, and here I am
now, good for the return trip. All I can do for any of you in the way of
showing new country, you’re welcome to. I’m bound to Mr. Effingham and
his father first of all. I’m their man till the exploring racket’s
finished.’
‘Gentlemen,’ said Argyll, rising to his feet oratorically, ‘friends,
countrymen, and fellow-pastoralists, I feel assured that you are all
grateful for the unexpected turn our plans have taken, owing to the
valuable information conveyed to us this night by my gallant and
honourable friend, Mr. Hubert Warleigh. If he carries out his promise of
acting as guide to us as far as this fair unknown land, I know you too
well to think for one moment that he will be suffered to confer this
benefit upon us gratuitously, the power to do which he has acquired at
peril of his life. (Hear, hear.) I beg to move that every man present at
this meeting pledges himself to contribute in kind, say at the rate of
ten per cent of his number, with the object of forming a herd with which
Mr. Warleigh may begin squatting life in the fine district he has been
fortunate enough to discover.’
The proposition was carried by acclamation. Further suggested by Neil
Barrington, ‘that this meeting do drink Mr. Warleigh’s health,’ and Mrs.
Teviot appearing with the ‘materials,’ which included a bottle of
Glenlivet, the suggestion was forthwith carried out.
Mr. Warleigh quietly declined the cheering beverage, and after a mild
request that he would change his mind, no notice was taken of the
eccentric proceeding. When at a tolerably late hour Wilfred and Hubert
retired to the barracks, the greatest unanimity prevailed. They were
provided with a goal and a guide. Nothing could be more satisfactory.
From the first they would have a course, and when the difficulties of
the road arose, they could, as a strong and united band, overcome
ordinary obstacles, and protect themselves from known dangers.
On the following morning Wilfred returned to The Chase, having persuaded
his newly-acquired friend to accompany him, not, however, without some
difficulty.
‘You have no notion,’ he said, ‘how queer and strange I felt at Benmohr
last night. I am the equal of any man there by birth, yet I could see
that they were helping me not to feel out of place, knowing what they
did. I couldn’t help thinking that I was like a stock-rider that comes
in and stands twisting his cabbage-tree hat before the master and his
friends, when he’s asked if everything will be ready for the muster next
day, and if he’ll have a glass of grog.’
‘But, my dear fellow, you could never look like that; your
appearance—excuse me for alluding to it—gives you a great pull in
society. After all, how many men are there who have had every advantage
that education can give them, who chiefly hold their tongues, or say
nothing worth listening to when they do speak.’
‘Ah, but they understand things if they don’t talk; a poor ignorant
devil like me, when he hears matters touched on, as happened last night,
without any of them intending it, for they tried not to talk above me,
knows no more than the dead what they are at. I feel as if I could cut
my throat when it comes across me that, by other people’s neglect and my
own folly, I have lost the best part of my birthright.’
‘There’s time yet,’ said Wilfred, deeply touched by the sadness of the
tone, in which this grand stalwart cadet of a good house bewailed the
fate which had reduced him, mentally, to the condition of a
bullock-driver.
‘You are young enough yet for anything; there is time enough and to
spare for you to improve yourself. So don’t be downhearted. As I said
before, your looks and your family name will carry you through
anything.’
‘If I thought so,’ said the younger son, ‘I might do something, even
now, to mend matters. And you really think that a man of my age could
make himself as good at books as some of the men we have just met, for
instance?’
‘I _have_ known men beginning late in life,’ said Wilfred, ‘who passed
stiff examinations, and when they commenced they could do little but
read and write. Now you are steady and have full control over yourself,
have you not?’
‘God knows!’ said his companion drearily. ‘I won’t go so far as that;
but I haven’t touched a drop of anything since your father shook hands
with me at Warbrok, and I don’t intend, for seven years at any rate. I
knelt down as soon as I was out of sight, and swore a solemn oath
against anything stronger than tea. And so far I’ve kept it.’
Much surprised were all at The Chase when Wilfred and his companion rode
up, and after a hurried introduction, passed on together to the former’s
bedroom.
The young ladies endeavoured as much as possible to prevent themselves
from gazing too uninterruptedly at the interesting quasi-stranger; but
found it to be a difficult task.
In despite of the educational defects and social disabilities of Hubert
Warleigh, there was about him a grandly unconscious, imperturbable
expression, like that of an Indian chief, which suited well his splendid
figure and bronzed features. He quietly addressed his host and answered
a few questions with but little change of countenance, and it was only
after an unusually playful sally on the part of Annabel that he relaxed
into a frank smile, which showed an unblemished set of teeth, under his
drooping moustache.
‘I feel as if he had been taken in battle, and we were holding him in
captivity,’ said that sportive maiden, after the girls had retired to
Mrs. Effingham’s room for their final talk.
‘All stern of look and strong of limb
The chieftain gazed around;
And silently they looked on him
As on a lion bound.
He has just that sort of air—very picturesque, of course—for he is the
handsomest man I ever saw; don’t you think so, Rosamond? I suppose he
can read and write? What a cruel shame to have brought him up like that?
Fancy Selden reared in such a way, mamma?’
‘I can hardly fancy such a thing, my dear imaginative child,’ said the
mother. ‘But how thankful we ought to be that we have been able to keep
dear Selden at school, even in this trying time.’
Mr. Effingham, who attributed the change which had taken place in Hubert
Warleigh’s habits in some measure to his own exhortation, was very
pleased and proud. He welcomed the young man into his family circle with
warmth, and in every way endeavoured to neutralise the _gêne_ of the
position by drawing him out upon topics in which his personal experience
told to advantage.
He constrained him to repeat the tale of his exploration, and dwelt with
great interest upon his sojourn with the blacks, which, he said,
deserved a place in one of Fenimore Cooper’s novels.
Annabel wanted to know whether there were any young men in the tribe who
at all resembled Uncas. But Hubert had never heard of Chingachgook or of
his heroic son. Magua and Hawkeye were as unknown to his unfurnished
mind as the personages of the Nibelungen-Lied. So they were compelled to
avoid quotations in their conversation, and only to use the cheapest
form of English which is made. It was a matter of regret to these
kind-hearted people when they made any allusion which they perceived to
be as the word of an unknown tongue to the stranger within their gates.
His half-puzzled, half-pained look was piteous to see. It was like that
of some dumb creature struggling for speech, or blindly feeling for a
half-familiar object.
To the artless benevolence of youth it would have been interesting to
remedy the deficiencies of a nature originally rich and receptive, but
void and barren from lack of ordinary culture. Mrs. Effingham, however,
compelled to regard things from a matron’s point of view, was not sorry
to think that this picturesque, neglected orphan would in a few days
quit their abode for a long journey.
As the time drew near, and preparations were proceeded with, a great
sadness commenced to overspread The Chase. Wilfred had never been absent
for any lengthened period before, nor Guy for more than a week under any
pretence whatever. He was frantic with delight at the change of plan.
‘I’m so glad that “Gyp” Warleigh is going with us, even if he hadn’t
found this new district. Dick says he’s the best bushman in the country,
and can go straight through a scrub and come out right the other side,
without sun or compass or anything, just like a blackfellow. You see
what a place I’ll have across the mountains after a year or two.’
‘I wish it was not so far and so dangerous, my child, as I am sure it
must be,’ said Mrs. Effingham, stroking the boy’s fair brow, as she
looked sadly at the eager face, bright with the unquestioning hopes of
youth. ‘You will enjoy the travel and adventure and even the risk, but
think how anxious your poor mother and sisters will be!’
‘Oh, I’ll write by every chance,’ said Guy, anxious as a page who sees
the knights buckle on armour for the first skirmish, not to be deprived
of his share of the fray. ‘There will be lots of opportunities by people
coming back.’
‘What! from a place just discovered?’ said his mother, with a gentle
incredulity.
‘Ah, but Dick says if it’s half as fine as Hubert Warleigh calls it—not
that he’s a man to say a word more than it deserves—that it will be
rushed like all new settlements with hundreds of people, and there will
be a town and a post-office and all kinds of humbug in no time. People
move faster in Australia than in that slow old Surrey.’
‘You mustn’t say a word against our dear old home, my boy,’ said his
mother, playfully threatening him, ‘or I shall fear your being turned
into a backwoodsman, or at any rate something different from an English
gentleman, and that would break my heart. But I hope plenty of
tradespeople and farmers, and persons of all kinds, will come to your
Eldorado. It will make it all the safer, and more comfortable for you
all.’
‘Farmers, mother!’ said the boy indignantly. ‘What are you thinking of?
We don’t want any poking farmers there, taking up the best of the flats
and the waterholes after we have found the country and fought the blacks
for them. We can keep it well enough with our rifles. All I want is a
good large run, and not to see a soul near it except my own stock-riders
for years to come.’
‘You are going to be quite a mediæval baron, Guy,’ said Annabel, who had
stolen up and taken his hand in hers, the three hearts beating closely
in unison. ‘I suppose you will set up a dungeon for refractory vassals.’
‘I am sure he will be a good boy, and remember his mother’s teachings
when she is far away,’ said the fond parent, as the tears filled her
eyes, looking at the fair, bright-eyed face which she might never see
more after the last wave of her hand—the last fond, lingering farewell,
which was so soon to be.
Well it is for the young and strong, who go laughing and shouting into
the battle of life, as if there were no ambuscades, defeats, weary
retreats, or hopeless resistance. Well for the sailor boy, who leaps on
to the deck as if there were no wreck or tempest, fatal mermaid or dead
men’s bones, beneath the smiling, inconstant wave! They have at least
their hour of hot-blooded fight and stubborn resistance to relentless
Destiny. But, ah me! how fares it with those who are left behind,
condemned to dreary watchings, for tidings that come not—to sickening
fears, that all too soon resolve themselves into the reality of doom?
These are the earth’s true martyrs—the fond mother—the devoted wife—the
loving sisters—the saddened father. Theirs the torture and the stake,
sacrificed to which they are in some form or other, while life lasts.